


The Salthill Prom

by SwingGirlAtHeart



Category: Supernatural
Genre: American Sign Language, Blurry Woman (Supernatural: Carry On) is Eileen Leahy, Canon Parallel, Childbirth, Coda, Dean Winchester Uses ASL, Episode: s15e16 Drag Me Away (From You), F/M, Family, Grief/Mourning, Marriage, Minor Castiel/Dean Winchester, Post-Episode: s15e18 Despair, Post-Episode: s15e19 Inherit the Earth, Post-Episode: s15e20 Carry On, Pregnancy, Romance, Sam Winchester Uses ASL, Wedding, canon character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:27:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28240902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwingGirlAtHeart/pseuds/SwingGirlAtHeart
Summary: Sam sings when he's happy, and Eileen notices.
Relationships: Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester
Comments: 12
Kudos: 53





	The Salthill Prom

**Author's Note:**

> Sam's blurry wife is Eileen Leahy, and anybody who disagrees with me can fight me in a Denny's parking lot.

The first time Eileen notices Sam humming, it’s a quiet afternoon at her apartment on a rare day when Sam has nothing to hunt and nowhere else to be. She wouldn’t have noticed at all, had she not been pressed into his side on the couch with her head leaning on his shoulder.

His legs are stretched out with his feet on the coffee table, his arm draped around her like a safety harness, all lanky long limbs with a book resting open on his lap. It’s not even a book of lore or spells; it’s a novel – _All the Pretty Horses_. Eileen is the opposite, curled with her knees pulled almost to her chest and her own book, _Last Chance to See_ , propped up against her thighs. Her spine fits neatly into the contour of Sam’s ribcage.

This has become one of their favorite things to do, just sitting and losing themselves in books alongside one another, with Sam’s fingers absentmindedly playing across whatever part of Eileen he can reach. A silent _I know you’re there_.

So when she feels Sam’s chest vibrate against her back, his fingertips gently tapping on her forearm, it pulls her out of the chapter she’s reading on Komodo dragons and it takes a minute for her to figure out that he’s humming to himself. A glance over her shoulder shows that he’s still focused on his book, and Eileen wonders if he’s aware he’s making any sound at all.

His voice – she knows because she can feel it – is deep and rumbling, the kind of sub-audible shaking that comes from ocean waves battering a cliff.

She doesn’t say anything to acknowledge it, just in case it makes him self-conscious. She doesn’t want him to stop.

She turns back to her book and sinks into the crook of his arm.

The next time she catches him doing it is a few nights later, when they’re still a sweaty, panting mess tangled in Sam’s bedsheets. Sam smiles sleepily up at her ( _why_ do men always want to fall asleep right after?) and pulls her down to lay on his chest, her head tucked up under his chin and his heartbeat thudding against her cheek. His hands comb through her hair. Their breathing slowly evens out in tandem, and then Eileen feels it again – that deep vibration coming up from somewhere in Sam’s belly.

She smiles, her head too low for Sam to see it. The humming has a rhythm to it, a pattern interspersed with undulations and short little stops, the only part of the melody that Eileen can follow. She presses her ear to Sam’s bare skin and tries to memorize it.

Over the course of weeks, Eileen notices Sam humming a handful of times and begins to keep a tally. Only when they’re alone, only when everything else is quiet, only when they’re touching. After all, she wouldn’t notice it if she wasn’t touching him. She watches when he’s not looking and thinks she sees him humming while he cooks her breakfast, thinks she sees his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he hits undetectable notes, but from even a short distance it’s impossible to tell for sure.

The boys have just returned from a hunt when Eileen meets them at the bunker with a stack of pizzas and plenty of beer. They quickly unload the food and drink from her aching arms (the amount of food needed to feed this particular group is _huge_ ) and Dean and Jack carry it all to the kitchen, leaving Sam and Eileen alone in the library for a precious minute.

As soon as Dean and Jack are out of sight, Sam leans down and kisses her, cupping her face in his hands. It’s the kind of kiss that’s bright and conductive, gold between the teeth.

“I missed you,” he signs when he finally pulls back and stands straight again. His mouth doesn’t move except to smile – there’s no need to speak English right now, nobody who needs to hear his thoughts other than her – and Eileen feels like she’s won a game she didn’t know she was playing.

“What was it this time?” she signs back. He looks tired. He doesn’t smell great either, but he’s been trapped in the Impala for a day and he’s only been home for a few minutes, so Eileen doesn’t care. He seems just a little bit haunted, like the hunt’s followed him home.

“Baba Yaga.” Sam’s fingerspelling has gotten much better lately, more fluid. He’s been practicing. Eileen can’t remember the last person that’s done that for her, spending their own time learning her language even when she’s not around. “Are you staying here tonight?” 

She quirks her fist. Her hand says _yes_. Her smile says _of course_.

She wants to kiss him again, but past his shoulder she sees Jack come back into the library balancing plates of steaming pizza, Dean trailing behind with more. So Eileen squeezes Sam’s hand and they go to sit at the table.

Dinner is a little odd and a little strained, like something happened while they were on the road. Eileen doesn’t ask what, and she thinks that if she’s meant to know, they’ll tell her.

Later in the evening, when the empty pizza boxes are piled high on the counter and the leftovers stashed in the fridge, Eileen helps Dean clean the kitchen. Jack’s already gone to bed, Dean ordering him to rest with a natural ease like he’s been raising teenagers his entire life. Sam is in the shower, rinsing away the travel grime from the day. As Dean scrubs the dishes and Eileen dries them, her curiosity finally gets the better of her.

“Can I ask you something?” she says aloud, her hands otherwise occupied by a stack of still-dripping plates.

Dean stops what he’s doing and turns to face her. “Shoot.”

He hasn’t put the same effort into learning sign language that Sam has, but Eileen finds it hard to fault him for it considering that she spends the vast majority of her time with Sam. Dean knows a few rudimentary signs and awkward sentence structure, but mostly he just makes sure to look directly at her and speak slowly, confident in her ability to read his lips.

“Does Sam sing a lot?”

Dean’s eyebrows snap together in surprise, his head tilting. Whatever he’d been expecting her to say, this was not it. “Sing?” he echoes. His mouth stays open a sliver, hung up on the _G_.

“Yeah.”

Something strange crosses Dean’s face – realization, maybe, but Eileen’s not certain. “Have you seen him singing?” he asks, each word seeming to drop from his mouth like he’s carefully placing them on the counter one by one.

Eileen nods.

Dean’s eyes drop slightly, sliding just a bit out of focus, and the corner of his mouth tugs upward. “Well, damn,” he says, and Eileen is fairly sure he’s not actually saying it to her.

“What?” she prompts him.

She sees Dean’s chest contract in a laugh, and he tugs on his earlobe. “It’s this… I guess it’s a tic, kinda,” Dean says. “He does it when he’s happy. Doesn’t even know he’s doing it.”

Eileen frowns, a little confused and not sure she’s reading Dean’s lips right.

“Does he do it a lot when you’re around?” he asks, his expression softer than usual.

Eileen gives a half-shrug, half-nod, because she’s not sure what constitutes _a lot_ in this context.

Dean laughs again and leans back against the sink, the dishes forgotten. “Eileen, I’ve caught him doing it maybe… a dozen times? Total. Over the last… Jeez. Ever.”

She can’t help it – her eyes widen. “Really?”

Dean nods, studying her face like she’s some kind of deity, like she’s just given him an answer to a question he’s had for decades. He’s never looked at her like that before, with awe or adoration. “Sam is not a guy who gets a lot of worry-free moments,” he says. Then, “Do you know what he’s singing?”

“He’s only humming,” she amends. There are no lyrics to read from Sam’s mouth, and for the first time she’s wishing there were. “But it’s always the same.” She shakes her head, not knowing the pattern well enough to replicate it.

Dean huffs out another laugh, then turns back to the sink. “Well, damn,” he says again.

Eileen swallows, her heart knocking solidly against the inside of her breastbone. “What does it mean?”

He gazes at her for a long moment, as if to say _You have to ask?_ But she does. Not because she doesn’t know the answer, but because she wants to see Dean say it.

“Means he’s in love with you.”

And just like that, Eileen is done. Every locked door inside her flings open, possibilities spilling out into her head. The idea of a lonely hunter’s life that had been so familiar and so safe for so long, that she _still_ clung to in the middle of the night when she was alone and doubtful, surges up one last time and dies with a sputter. It’s crowded out of her mind by better things. Better nights. Better days. Better stories still to come.

Dean affectionately punches her shoulder, grins, and goes back to washing the dishes.

She thinks Dean might be her brother now.

The night stretches on and finds Eileen in Sam’s bed wearing one of his oversized t-shirts for pajamas. He’s wrapped around her, heavy and enclosing and safe, smelling like peppermint and tea tree oil from the shampoo he uses. She’s dozing, floating halfway in a dream, and her eyes snap open when she feels Sam’s chest move strangely behind her.

She waits for a second, not sure if he started talking in his sleep and that’s what woke her. A moment later, there’s a small but sharp hitch of breath. She sits up and stretches out of his arms to turn on the lamp, then twists to look at him. He hastily swipes a hand over his eyes, then rubs a circle with his fist over his sternum: “I’m sorry.”

“What’s going on?” she says, reaching out to stop his hand moving on his chest. She doesn’t want an apology; she wants to know what happened.

Sam lets himself roll onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. “Jack’s going to die.”

Eileen blinks at him, praying that she’s read his lips wrong. 

“This… this plan we’re using against Chuck,” Sam says. His hand shakes on Chuck’s name sign, a tense letter C drawn down from the forehead to the clavicle. “It’s going to kill Jack.”

The only sign Sam manages is _kill_. His hands fall to his sides.

Eileen sits up fully, crossing her legs and sitting on the mattress by his hip, his thigh under her knee. He’s still staring at the ceiling, eyes glassy. “Sam,” she says, so that he’ll look at her.

He does, and it breaks her heart.

Images flash through Eileen’s head – a scalpel in a hand that was no longer her own, buried to the hilt in Sam’s shoulder, surrounded by blinking casino lights and dead bodies. Chuck pulling her strings, making her cut deeper despite Sam’s screams. Sam’s hands tied behind him so that he can’t talk to her. Sam’s face twisted in pain, to something unrecognizable. These are the things that keep her up at night.

The pain she sees now is different. Deeper. He’s terrified. He’s losing a son.

She wraps her hand around his. “What can I do?”

He squeezes her fingers and doesn’t reply. Instead, he pulls her back down to lay next to him and kisses the top of her head. Eileen cinches her arm around his torso, holding him as much as she can. She knows what it means: _This, right here, is enough._

Over the next couple of weeks, Sam keeps her at a distance, only because they’re going up against literal _God_ and God has it in for Eileen. Granted, he seems to have it in for everybody, but Sam’s not willing to risk Eileen being caught in the crossfire, so Eileen reluctantly agrees to hang back. She can’t imagine that having Sam distracted in the middle of this particular fight is going to end well for anybody, and she’s just as unwilling to lose him as he is to lose her.

To distract herself from the anxiety of wondering whether Sam is okay, Eileen goes on a few small-time hunts on her own and doesn’t tell Sam, not wanting to add to his pile of worries. A vamp in Lincoln, a ghoul in Wichita. A werewolf in Kearney. Nothing too far away from the Winchesters, just in case. They keep in touch through texting and video calls. Sam’s face doesn’t look the same on a screen, confined to a tiny thing she can hold in her hand.

She’s in the middle of making dinner for herself when Sam texts her. She gives the pot of chili one last stir before reaching to get her phone from her back pocket, grinning to herself and sending back a _Hey_ and a heart emoji.

Her smile vanishes when Sam’s reply appears on the screen. _I need you to trust me. I’ll be there soon, but I need you to get out of your house, get somewhere public._

Eileen’s heart drops into her stomach. She doesn’t hesitate to grab the pot and dump it into the sink, shutting off the stove so it won’t burn the building down while she’s gone. She rushes to her bedroom to pull her boots on and sends another text to Sam. _You’re scaring me._

 _Wait out by your car. We’re on the way_.

 _Please tell me what’s going on._ She hits Send, finishes lacing her boots and grabs her bag and her keys from the table by the door.

_Just wait. We’re almost there._

She huffs at him, resolving to give him a stern lecture about answering her damn questions once whatever this is is over. She lets the apartment door lock behind her and rushes downstairs, out the front door and into the night. It rained earlier in the evening and her car is still wet, the air filling her lungs damp and heavy.

Once she reaches the sidewalk, she texts him back.

_Okay, I’m at my car. Now tell me wh_

* * *

Only an instant later, Eileen is lying flat on her back staring up at a blue sky and _blinding_ sunlight. She doesn’t remember falling. Did she hit her head? She must have. She lifts her arm and feels at the back of her skull, but there’s no wound, no soreness, no blood on her fingertips.

Suddenly there’s someone standing above her blocking the sun, a fat elderly woman with moon-rimmed glasses and a big farmer’s market tote. Her mouth is moving; she’s yelling something.

Eileen sits up, waving away the woman’s offered hand and heaving herself to her feet. She brushes gravel from the seat of her pants and looks around in confusion, her heart skipping. The neighborhood is unchanged apart from the fact that it’s gone from nine o’clock at night to noon in the blink of an eye.

The woman is still shouting at her, her toadish eyes huge with concern. Eileen manages to catch the word “help” and “okay” but the woman’s mouth is moving too fast.

“I’m Deaf!” Eileen snaps, her disorientation and agitation getting the best of her. “I can’t hear you no matter how loud you yell!”

The woman’s mouth shuts, her sagging jowl wobbling. A moment later, “Do you need help?” slow enough for Eileen to read.

Eileen glances around the sidewalk – her bag is gone. Keys and phone nowhere to be seen. Her car is gone too. What the hell is happening?

“Are you hurt?” asks the elderly woman, tapping Eileen’s shoulder.

Eileen looks down at her body for any sign of injury. She shakes her head. She needs to call Sam, _now_.

“Do you have a phone I can use?”

“I don’t own a cell phone,” the woman says, and Eileen has to suppress the urge to roll her eyes. Of course the one person who would be walking by right now would be someone who used a rotary phone as a teenager. “But I only live a block away. You can come use my landline.”

Eileen nods gratefully. She doesn’t want to visit some stranger’s house, but without her keys she can’t get back into her apartment and she can’t drive anywhere, so it doesn’t seem like she has much of a choice.

“I’m Myrtle. What’s your name, dear?”

“Eileen.”

“Come on, Eileen. Let’s get you some help.”

They arrive at Myrtle’s house and Eileen stands awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen as Myrtle loads her groceries into the fridge. She offers a glass of water but Eileen only shakes her head. Finally, Myrtle lifts the phone from its holster on the wall. _Christ_ , it’s not even a cordless.

Eileen swallows, the clunky plastic phone huge in her palm, a dinosaur of a device with no camera or screen. She won’t be able to tell if Sam answers.

Myrtle sees her pause and puts a hand on Eileen’s shoulder. “If you know the number, I can talk for you,” she says.

Eileen wants to cry. She can count on one hand the number of times in her life that she’s had to rely on others to communicate for her. She wants to punch Myrtle for even suggesting it. But instead she nods and presses the glowing green buttons on the outdated phone.

Myrtle takes the receiver from her and puts it to her ear. Eileen stands there feeling helpless and praying that Sam will answer an unknown number.

“Hello?” Myrtle says after a moment. Eileen hangs on her every word, gnawing at her lower lip. “Hello, I’m here with Eileen— Yes, she’s okay.”

“Sam, I’m here!” Eileen can’t stop herself from shouting. Even if she can’t hear him, he can hear her, and that’s better than nothing.

Myrtle’s nodding into the phone. “Absolutely, she’s fine. My address is 87 River Run Lane. You can pick her up here.” She listens to something Sam is saying on the other end and then bids him a goodbye and hangs the receiver back on its holster. “Well,” she says to Eileen. “He’s very worried about you. He says he’ll be here in an hour.”

Eileen nods, shaking with relief. She’s fighting tears. She has no idea what the _hell_ is going on and all she wants to do is curl up with Sam and forget all of this, safe at his side. “Thank you,” she says. “I won’t take up any more of your time.”

She turns to leave, but Myrtle stops her with a hand on her arm. “Honey, you need to stay and wait. He’s picking you up here.”

“I was just going to sit outside.” Eileen gestures toward the door.

Myrtle shakes her head. “No, I don’t think so,” she insists. “You can wait in here and I can make some lunch.”

“I’m not hungry,” Eileen dismisses her and turns again to go. She’s a little too preoccupied to be concerned about Myrtle’s feelings.

A hand on her arm again. Eileen grits her teeth, about to unleash a _GET THE HELL OFF ME_ at the top of her lungs, but instead Myrtle only says, “Then I’ll wait with you.”

 _Whatever_ , Eileen thinks to herself. It doesn’t make any difference, really, whether she waits alone or not. She doesn’t know this woman or need her company. What she needs is to see Sam and make sure he’s all right and figure out what the hell happened. But at the same time, as soon as Myrtle follows Eileen out the door she feels just a _little_ bit better.

They sit on the front steps in the sunshine, Eileen anxiously watching every car that turned onto the road from around the corner. She’s so focused on the traffic that conversation with Myrtle is impossible, and whether or not Myrtle minds this, Eileen has no idea. 

It occurs to her abruptly that she doesn’t know if Myrtle was talking to Sam or Dean on the phone. Yes, it was Sam’s number Eileen punched in, but if something happened… if _Chuck_ happened… Dean would have answered Sam’s phone.

That fear eddies around in her head while they wait, and slowly graduates from a whirlpool to a maelstrom, beating against the walls of her skull in a hurricane of anxiety. She can barely breathe. Time drags.

At long last, she sees the sunlight glint off the Impala’s sleek black body and lurches to her feet. She rushes down the steps and across the flagstone path through the front lawn, almost skidding on the sidewalk.

Sam steps out of the passenger side of the car and Eileen’s knees nearly go out from sheer relief. His eyes are wide, like he never expected to see her again, and his embrace slams into her and nearly knocks her back onto the ground. She locks her arms around his torso, her forehead pressed into his chest. For a minute, she just stands there, letting him hold her.

Then she feels him speak and she leans back, realizing that he’s saying something to Myrtle. Probably thanking her.

Eileen pats his chest to get his attention, then signs “What happened?”

“Later,” Sam tells her, glancing pointedly in Myrtle’s direction.

Eileen gives a short, courteous wave to Myrtle before reaching for the door handle, then realizes that Dean hasn’t moved from the driver’s seat. In fact, when she leans down to peer at him through the window, he’s not even looking in their direction. Instead he’s staring straight out over the steering wheel, his elbow propped on the door with his hand pressed to his temple. From this angle it’s hard to see fully but there’s a weight pulling on his shoulders, a deadness to him that Eileen’s not seen before. Something is really wrong.

She stands back up and frowns at Sam. “What happened?” she asks again, this time following up with a point to Dean.

Sam swallows, then draws a _C_ from his right shoulder to his flank in Castiel’s name sign. He lifts his hands, one palm up and one palm down, and flips them at the wrist. “Cas died.”

Eileen’s blood runs cold. Her stomach twists. “And Jack?” she prompts, afraid of the answer.

Sam gives a pained smile and for a moment she thinks Jack is dead too, but instead Sam signs, “He’s fine. I’ll explain later.” He brushes a loose strand of hair back from her forehead. “Let’s go home.”

Eileen squeezes Sam’s hand and then eagerly gets into the back seat of the Impala, all too ready to leave. Sam gives another grateful wave to Myrtle and sits back down in the passenger seat.

Dean drives, saying nothing the entire journey back to Lebanon.

* * *

It’s nearly four days before Dean emerges from his room for anything other than retrieving more beer from the fridge. Eileen and Sam are in the kitchen making lunch when Dean walks in, properly dressed and showered for the first time since they won their fight against Chuck. Sam doesn’t comment on it, only telling Dean to grab a seat, that lunch is almost ready. They’re making bacon cheeseburgers, with real bacon. Eileen slips a piece to Miracle when Sam’s not looking.

She squeezes Sam’s elbow and brings a few condiments and napkins to the table, then sinks into the seat across from Dean. Miracle trots over and nuzzles his head into Dean’s lap, tongue lolling out. Dean scratches his ears and Eileen sees him promise Miracle a walk later in the afternoon. He looks better than he has in days, only because he’s bathed and changed. But his face is still drawn and hard, the corner of his jaw a jackknife threatening anyone who asks if he’s okay.

So Eileen doesn’t ask if he’s okay, because of course he’s not, and instead reaches across the table and lays her hand over his wrist for a moment before drawing her arm back to her side. She doesn’t know if the touch bothers him, but at least he lifts his eyes from the tabletop.

A muscle in his cheek tightens, and then he touches his fingers open-handed to his chin: “Thank you.”

Eileen nods and leaves it at that. She could easily tell him a whole series of platitudes. That his grief will eventually subside, that it gets better, that time heals everything. That they’ve won their battle against _God_ and that they’re free and that they have plenty to be grateful for. None of that would be false, exactly.

But she also knows that for someone like Dean to lose someone like Cas… well. It’s cosmic. A gravitational singularity of heartbreak.

Dean lifts his head abruptly, looking in Sam’s direction in surprise. After a second, the corners of his mouth tug up in a small smile. Sam has his back turned to them and is entirely focused on the burger patties searing on the stovetop.

Dean’s attention swings back to Eileen. He points at Sam, then crooks his elbow and brushes his other hand up and down the inside of his arm like a flag. “He’s singing.”

Eileen’s eyebrows shoot up and she twists to look at Sam. From this distance and this angle, she can’t see any change in Sam’s movement that would indicate that he’s humming. She turns back to Dean. “What song?” she signs.

Dean listens for a minute, concentrating with a frown. Then he shakes his head and shrugs.

“Is he good?” is Eileen’s next question.

Dean makes a face and touches his first and middle fingers to his thumb, an absolute “No.”

A laugh bursts out of Eileen’s chest, which makes Sam turn around and ask what they’re up to.

“Nothing,” Dean tells him quickly. “Just chatting. Practicing my sign language.”

A week later, Eileen and Sam have taken over the couch in Dean’s TV room. They’ve settled back into their favorite pastime, reading together with nothing looming over their heads. Dean has taken to going on long drives, taking the dog with him – “He’s working through it,” Sam said when Eileen asked if they should worry. “He’ll be okay.” – and so they have the bunker to themselves for the time being. Despite her deep concern for Dean, Eileen _is_ glad for the opportunity to just be with Sam without having to keep a close eye on Dean’s alcohol intake.

Sam is propped against the arm of the couch with his impractically long legs stretched out over Eileen’s lap. She has her book resting on his knees, her arm hooked lazily over his thighs. She’s finished _Last Chance to See_ and has moved on to _Gods Behaving Badly_ , while Sam is still working his way through _All the Pretty Horses_.

She very nearly misses it. But the slightest movement out of the corner of her eye catches her attention, and Eileen looks up from her book. Sam’s Adam’s apple is bobbing up and down, playing the strings of a scale Eileen’s too far away to detect. Trying to be discreet about it, Eileen reaches over and lets her hand rest on his belly, but he notices and she only feels him humming for half a second before he stops. He glances at her hand and then up at her in confusion.

“What’s up?” he asks.

Eileen pauses, and then her curiosity takes over. She puts her book down. “What are you singing?”

He blinks. “Huh?”

“You were just humming,” she says. “You’re always humming the same song. What is it?”

He stares at her, startled and a little bit amused, as though she’s just stumbled onto a hidden Christmas present two weeks early. “I didn’t think you knew.”

“I can feel it,” she retorts, with a face that says _Duh._ “What’s the song? I have to know.”

A smile crosses Sam’s face like a cloud over the sun. “Galway Girl.”

Eileen doesn’t know it. But then, why would she? “What are the words?” she presses.

Sam dog-ears the page he’s on and sets his book on the cushion beside him, then unbuckles his legs from Eileen’s lap and sits up straight. Facing her, Sam begins to sign. 

“ _Well, I took a stroll on the old long walk of a day-i-ay-i-ay. I met a little girl and we stopped to talk, on a fine soft day-i-ay-i-ay. And I ask you, friend, what’s a fella to do? ‘Cause her hair was black and her eyes were blue._ ”

It’s clumsy and slow and entirely lacking in rhythm, and Sam voices the words as he signs, though Eileen doesn’t know if he’s singing the lyrics or just reciting them.

“ _And I knew right then, I’d be taking a whirl ‘round the Salthill Prom with a Galway girl…_ ”

Eileen pulls her legs up to sit cross-legged on the couch opposite Sam, propping her elbows on her thighs and letting her chin rest on her hands as she revels in Sam’s inelegant yet perfect performance.

“ _We were halfway there when the rain came down of a day-i-ay-i-ay,_ ” Sam continues, grinning at her through the lyrics. “ _She asked me up to her flat downtown of a fine soft day-i-ay-i-ay._ ”

She’s beaming, she knows, but she doesn’t care.

“ _I took her hand and I gave her a twirl, and I lost my heart to a Galway girl._ ”

Eileen has never been one to be outwardly emotional, and in true hunter fashion she traditionally plays her feelings close to the chest. But here, with a boy singing to her like something out of a John Hughes movie, none of that matters. Suddenly she’s giddy and young.

“ _You know I’ve traveled around, I’ve been all over this world, but I ain’t ever seen nothing like a Galway girl._ ”

Sam finally finishes the song, and he reaches over to brush a knuckle lightly under Eileen’s chin. He’s studying her face like he’s memorizing every little contour, every freckle and premature wrinkle, collecting the details of her like something he can keep in his pocket.

Abruptly, the arm’s length between them is too far for Eileen. She closes the gap and kisses Sam fiercely, open-mouthed and using his shirt collar to yank him closer. He laughs into the kiss and lets her drag him forward until he’s pinning her to the couch cushions. 

His stubble scrapes her jaw as his mouth moves down and traces a line along the tendon of her neck, and Eileen reaches past his shoulders to tug his shirt up, desperate to remove any barrier between them. She has to pull hard to get the shirt over his head, his hair messy and almost windblown when she’s done. He reaches down and unbuttons her jeans, his fingers outlining her hips as he moves to push them down, but then he stops short.

“You know,” he says, halfway breathless. “Dean’s going to kill us if we have sex on the couch.”

Eileen giggles. “Absolutely murder us.”

Sam grabs his shirt from where Eileen tossed it and stands up, offering his hand. “Come on,” he says, and follows it with a sign, a _G_ drawn twice up the side of his jaw.

Eileen’s heart leaps in her chest and for a pure joyful second she thinks she might burst. The sign Sam just did isn’t one she’s seen before; she knows he’s just invented it right now, in this moment. And she doesn’t have to ask to know what it means: Galway Girl. _My_ Galway Girl.

It doesn’t even matter that she’s from County Cork, not Galway. It doesn’t matter that her eyes are brown, not blue. The song was written for her. For them. She feels that in her bones.

She takes Sam’s hand, and lets him lead her up off the couch. They exit the TV room and rush down the hall, laughing and heading for Sam’s bedroom – no, _their_ bedroom, Eileen thinks – refusing to let go of each other the entire way. Back in the TV room, their books remain on the floor, tossed aside and forgotten.

* * *

In the days and weeks following, Eileen spends less and less time at her apartment, and the bunker starts to feel more like home. Little changes are made, some intentionally, others not. Eileen’s toothbrush has a designated place on the bathroom counter, her favorite tea in its box in the pantry, her car in its own spot in the garage next to the Impala. Dean goes into the wiring at the bunker entrance and installs a doorbell with an attached light, just in case she’s there alone when someone knocks. She and Sam go running together every day, following the route that takes them closest to the nearby lake so that they can pause and enjoy the view. And in the mornings when they cook breakfast, Dean already knows how she likes her eggs.

Slowly, the bunker expands to fit her. Eileen hopes it doesn’t feel to Sam and Dean that she’s trying to replace Cas or Jack – it certainly doesn’t feel that way to her. Rather, the voids left by their missing family members are tangible, occupying space alongside them. The loss of Jack is bittersweet. The loss of Castiel is profound. Their names are still carved into the table in the library, bedrooms still untouched.

They hunt, too. Monsters are still lurking in the nooks and crannies of the world, but they seem small and almost trivial compared to the battles Sam and Dean have recently faced. Hunts feel more like errands, with few exceptions. A vetala in El Paso nearly takes Dean out, teeth only millimeters away from his neck when Eileen swoops in with her silver knife. 

On the drive home, Eileen worries that Dean’s letting himself get careless.

But if Sam has the same concern, he doesn’t mention it, and Eileen doesn’t feel quite yet that she’s got much of a right to bring it up first.

It’s a stormy Tuesday afternoon when Sam and Eileen take her car back to her apartment to retrieve a few more changes of clothes and a handful of other necessities. They climb the stairs and duck through her front door, shaking the rain from their collars. The wind and water batter the windows, and despite it being barely two o’clock, it’s dark.

“There’s beer in the fridge, I think,” Eileen says over her shoulder as she heads for her bedroom, turning lights on as she goes. “Help yourself. I won’t be long.”

In her room, she fishes a small extra duffel out of the foot of her closet and begins moving folded clothes from her dresser into the bag. She’s done quickly and walks back out of the bedroom to find Sam standing at the small hutch against the wall of the living room, beer in hand, studying the array of framed photographs Eileen has arranged there.

“I’m ready when you are,” Eileen says.

Sam looks up, then points to the pictures. “Who are all these people?”

Eileen sets her duffel by the door and goes to stand beside him. There really aren’t _that_ many photos, but it’s a lot compared to the photos Sam and Dean have of their family.

Her finger traces down the frame closest to her. “This one is me and Lillian,” she explains. “The day of my first monster kill.”

Sam touches her shoulder, making Eileen look up. “How old were you?”

“Twelve.”

“You look happy,” Sam remarks. Lightning flashes outside, blazing through the windows for only a second.

“I wasn’t.” Eileen shakes her head, gazing down at her pre-teen self in the photo, wearing pigtails and a smile she knows was forced. “I was terrified. Putting on a show so Lillian would keep bringing me on hunts.”

Sam sets his beer down, then reaches over and picks up the largest frame, the picture inside it somewhat faded. “And them?” he prompts.

She swallows, her heart aching. “My parents.”

Sam holds the photo in his hands like it’s something precious to him, which Eileen doesn’t quite understand. She herself has barely any real connection to her own parents, so why should Sam value a photograph of them so much?

Lightning flashes again, illuminating Sam’s face like a halo.

He holds the photo out to her. “You should bring that with you,” he says.

Eileen stares at him, raising her eyebrows. “You mean it?”

He nods. “Of course. The bunker’s your home too.”

He says it so simply, so cavalier, that Eileen almost doesn’t catch it. She’d been feeling that way for weeks already, but to see Sam actually confirm it… A wave of euphoria flows outward from her chest, filling her to the brim.

“When’s your lease up on this place, anyways?” Sam asks.

“It’s month-to-month,” she answers, and somehow isn’t prepared for Sam’s next sentence.

“Then you should move in.”

Eileen swallows, a grin spreading across her face. “What?”

Sam smiles down at her, then loops his arms around her back and draws her up close. “You should move in. Officially.”

Another strike of lightning somewhere out in the storm, another burst of white light. Eileen hugs Sam back, pressing her head to his chest. She’s not sure why his offer has caught her off-guard – she practically lives at the bunker already – but to have Sam so readily invite her, and suggest that she entirely give up her apartment astonishes her down to her core.

His chin is resting on top of her head, and he starts humming.

Eileen smiles to herself. This time, the humming is intentional – he’s doing it because he knows she can feel it. That makes it better.

There in the living room that will only be hers for another month before she terminates her lease, Sam sways with Eileen in his arms, and she thinks he might be dancing with her.

During the drive back to the bunker – back _home_ – Eileen decides that she wants to feel Sam singing every day for the rest of her life.

But Dean dies less than a week later, and Sam doesn’t sing for a year.

* * *

When Dean is killed in a stupid hunt gone stupidly wrong, Eileen is the one to keep Sam from losing his mind. She helps retrieve Dean’s body. She helps to burn it. She makes sure Sam eats and sleeps with some semblance of a routine. It’s months before he’s anywhere close to functioning again.

Extended members of the Winchesters’ found family – Bobby, Jody, Donna, and more – pass through like ships docking in a harbor, necessary but temporary. All checking on Sam and making sure he hasn’t slipped into his own personal Empty.

Eileen catches him in the library late at night sometimes, staring down at the names carved into the table. He doesn’t touch her as much these days, withdrawn into his own head more often than not. He doesn’t talk to her as much. He doesn’t sing at all.

But he still clutches her hands in the middle of the night, so she knows he’s still there, still trying. He doesn’t hold her like a thing he wants to protect. He holds her like a drowning man clings to a buoy in a storm.

Sam survives. Eileen keeps track. It’s a month before he eats a meal unprompted. Three months before he laughs at a joke she tells. Seven before he gets a look in his eye like he _wants_ to live. Eight before he initiates sex. Eleven before _he_ tells a joke.

A year ticks by in sunrises pink and bloody.

It’s a freezing, icy day in February when Eileen realizes that she’s late. She doesn’t mention it to Sam. He’s sitting at the library table on his laptop with Miracle at his feet, looking for their next case, when she walks through shrugging on her coat.

“Hey,” he says. “Where are you off to?”

“Supply run,” she answers simply as she pulls on a knit hat and mittens. “Anything specific you want me to get?”

He shakes his head, already returning his attention to the computer. “Nope, I’m good.”

Eileen leans over to give him a kiss, then tells Miracle to stay before he can follow her up the stairs.

Outside, her breath hangs in front of her nose and the cold seeps in through her jacket. She ties her scarf tighter around her neck and drives to town, making sure to go to a different grocery store than usual. The cashiers at their usual spot all know her and Sam, and she doesn’t want to risk them mentioning something to him the next time he goes in.

She meanders the aisles, grabbing a few things they actually _do_ need for the kitchen. Sam was bound to notice if she came back from a grocery run without groceries, after all. Then she takes a deep breath, steels her nerves, and grabs a pregnancy test from the shelf in the pharmaceutical section.

Back home, Sam is still in the library. He stands up when she comes in, stomping snow from her boots, and offers to help with the bags.

“No, I’m okay,” Eileen says quickly, already brushing past him. She wonders if she’s just blown her cover – she’s never turned down his help before – but when she gets to the kitchen, he hasn’t followed her. She paws through the bags until she finds the pregnancy test and tucks it quickly into the inner pocket of her coat, just in case Sam decides to help her after all.

Late in the evening, Eileen locks the bathroom door and sits on the toilet, staring at the little plastic stick in her hands until her bladder can’t wait any more. She pees, then gingerly sets the test on the counter next to the sink while she washes her hands with her heart in her throat.

She sits on the steps leading into the bathtub, waiting. She doesn’t know what she wants to happen. Staring down at the test in her palm, there’s only one pink line.

Has it been two minutes yet? Eileen supposes it would have been smart to bring a watch. She doesn’t even have her phone with her; it’s on the bedside table in the bedroom. Stupid.

The seconds drag by like hours, and abruptly, it’s there. The ghost of a second pink line beside the first.

She stares at it. The little line only grows a stronger, more vibrant pink.

A long breath falls from her lungs, and she leans back against the tub. She feels no excitement, no wave of joy. But amazingly, she doesn’t feel fear, either. Or dread. Instead, the only thing in her at this particular moment is a sense of calm. Or maybe she’s just numb.

So much of her life has been dedicated to hunting, to fighting, and the idea of finding any kind of lasting connection with someone was so far out of reach that when it actually happened she barely knew what to do with it. The idea of having a child – a literal, actual _baby_ – had never occurred to her, even in the most abstract of ideas.

And now, she doesn’t know how she feels about it.

Eileen takes one last breath and pulls herself to her feet. She drops the pregnancy test in the trash can and covers it with a few paper towels so that Sam doesn’t see it, then brushes her teeth. 

In their bedroom, Miracle is asleep on the floor at the foot of the bed and Sam is already under the covers, reading. He smiles at her when she comes in. She changes out of her clothes and slides into bed next to him.

Immediately, he knows something is off. Eileen’s not sure how he knows, but there must be something in her body language because he puts his book down and worry crosses his face.

“You okay?” he signs.

The first flicker of fear kindles in the pit of her stomach. She’s not sure why telling Sam scares her – she knows he won’t be unkind – but it _does_. She thinks the only thing that might worry her is not that he won’t want a baby, or that he will, but rather that however he feels will be different from what she wants. And she doesn’t even know what she wants.

But Eileen doesn’t cope well with ambiguity, so now is as good a time to tell him as any. “We need to talk,” she says, and sits up to prop her back against the headboard.

Sam’s eyebrows snap together in an anxious frown. He puts his book on the bedside table. “What’s up?”

Eileen swallows. “I’m pregnant.” There’s no point in easing Sam into it.

Sam’s eyes widen, and he sits up at once, his spine ramrod straight. His index finger arcs from his chin down to point at her, signing “Really?”

She nods, her heart doing somersaults in her chest.

“When did you find out?”

“Ten minutes ago?” she answers with a shrug. “I got a test at the store.”

Sam studies her, and she studies him. Both trying to figure out what the other is thinking and both of them failing.

“How are you feeling about it?” he asks.

“Honestly? I don’t know.”

He nods in agreement, and Eileen feels a tiny ripple of relief. At least they can be uncertain together. She suddenly wishes they’d talked about this earlier, when the conversation wasn’t forced by a real pregnancy.

“Sam,” she starts nervously, her thoughts taking shape as she speaks. “A baby… doesn’t fit. Not in this kind of life. We both know that.”

Sam nods, looking down at his hands. She’s right, she knows she is. A hunter’s life is completely and utterly incongruous with parenthood. The way that she grew up – the way _Sam_ grew up – is not the kind of life she would ever want to inflict on a person. A childhood filled with trauma, a young adulthood dedicated to violence? Or worse, revenge? No. Not something she’s willing to risk.

And even if they somehow managed to provide a home that gave more love than pain, the likelihood of dying young would loom large from the beginning. She thinks of Dean, impaled, blood pooling under his shoes.

“What if we weren’t hunting?”

The question knocks Eileen back. “What?”

“If we weren’t hunting,” Sam repeats, reaching out to take her hand in his. “If we left all this behind us, would you want to have the baby?”

“I…” Eileen trails off, stunned. Her head is swimming. “Would you?”

Sam twists on the mattress, turning so that he’s facing her fully. He’s making sure she doesn’t miss a word. “I think,” he says slowly, squeezing her fingers, “that if I was going to be a parent, I wouldn’t want my kid to go through the things we did. And if I was going to be a parent, I would want to be a parent with _you_.”

He punctuates his speech with his free hand lifting to touch her cheek. A smile lights up his face, bright even in the darkness of their bedroom. Eileen suddenly feels like she’s falling in love with him a second time.

“So if you want to keep our lives the way they are right now,” Sam continues, “I’m okay with that. We don’t have to change a thing. But if you do want to leave, to quit hunting, and you want to go through with this…” His hand drops from her face, brushing gently over her stomach. “Then I’m _with_ you.”

Eileen stares at Sam’s face, completely unable to wrap her head around how lucky she’s been. The solitary life she led before she met Sam is a distant memory, barely a glimmer in the back of her head. She sees her life changing in an instant, swinging in an entirely new direction. The future now seems tangible, like something they don’t have to live one day at a time.

She doesn’t have to think about it any more than that. “Then we quit.”

Sam’s smile grows even larger, the biggest she’s ever seen on his face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” 

Sam lurches forward and kisses her fervently, and as soon as he does Eileen knows she’s made the right decision. For the first time, she feels _excited_.

When Sam pulls back, the words fall out of her mouth before she even realizes she wants to ask.

“Will you marry me?”

Sam blinks in surprise, dumbfounded. The shock only lasts for half a second, however, and abruptly he begins to laugh – the kind of heavy, belly-aching, tearful laughter that Eileen hasn’t seen from him in over a year.

She frowns, not understanding. She wonders if she said it wrong, accidentally asking him something completely different. “What’s so funny?” she demands.

He flaps a hand, still chuckling, and reaches over to the bedside table to open the little drawer. When he turns around again, he has a tiny box in the palm of his hand.

Eileen’s jaw drops.

Sam is still grinning. “You beat me to it,” he says, and opens the box. Inside is a small ring, silver and simple and nothing fancy and perfect.

“You’re kidding,” Eileen says.

Sam shakes his head and takes the ring from the box. “I’ve had this for a month,” he confesses. “Just been trying to find the right time.”

Eileen does the only thing she can think of, and kisses him again. He’s more solid under her touch than he’s been in ages, and she realizes suddenly that she’s _missed_ him. She’s missed him like this – present and engaged and _happy_.

“Is that a yes?” he asks when she finally comes up for air.

Eileen smiles. “I asked you first.”

He laughs again. “Yes,” he says, and slides the ring onto her finger. He places a kiss on the back of her knuckles.

They fall asleep entwined, Sam’s arms wrapped around her like armor. Eileen is just dozing off at last when she feels Sam humming _Galway Girl_ , and she’s so relieved that she nearly cries.

This past year has been the hardest of her life, and likely the hardest year of Sam’s too. And she knows that the grief will not go away, but it’s finally receding enough to make room for something new. For the moment, she has Sam back – the same Sam who danced with her in her apartment, and who learned her language well enough to sing to her in a way she could understand.

She smiles in the dark, turns her head against Sam’s chest, and falls asleep as he sings.

* * *

They get married in the spring, when there’s still snowmelt patching the grass and the mornings are encased in frost, but the afternoons are cool and humid. Jody’s back yard serves as both church and reception venue, her house bustling with activity as a couple dozen hunters and various other acquaintances filter in from across the country.

Any hunter gathering is a raucous affair, a wedding even more so. Hours before the ceremony, the crowd has already consumed an impressive amount of beer, and Bobby is manning the grill out back. “Finest catering in Sioux Falls,” he says, and snarls at anyone who tries to take over for him (although he _does_ allow Charlie to flip a couple of burgers).

Garth and Bess insist on helping Jody keep order, and force everybody out of the house and into the back yard, away from anything breakable. Gertie, Cas, and Sam run around chasing Miracle and getting underfoot, with Garth repeatedly telling them to quit it, that they’re the only children present and they’re giving both children _and_ werewolves a bad name.

Alex and Patience seize Eileen by the arms only a minute after she and Sam arrive, dragging her into Patience’s bedroom at the far end of the house to help her get ready. Eileen laughs and allows it; there’s so little room in the hunter lifestyle for girly things, and she’s happy to let them take part in the day. While Alex and Patience comb and pull Eileen’s hair back into a somewhat ornate Dutch braid, Claire and Kaia are somewhere in the main part of the house making sure that Sam looks as put-together as possible.

This wedding, Eileen knows, will really only be a step up from a neighborhood barbecue in terms of formality. There’s no white wedding gown waiting for her to slip into, nobody will walk her down the aisle – hell, there won’t be an aisle. There is no best man, no maid of honor. Sam will not be in a tuxedo, and Eileen won’t even be wearing a dress. With her belly already beginning to swell, she doesn’t think that a dress would really do much for her figure anyways. Very little about the wedding will be traditional, but then again Eileen and Sam are hardly traditional people with traditional lives. Or, for that matter, traditional friends.

Donna leans into the bedroom to ask if they’re ready, and Patience jumps up and down and claps her hands in excitement. Alex fixes a couple last strands of hair, and Eileen looks at herself one final time in the mirror. No veil, no dress, no makeup… Sitting here in her very best flannel shirt with her belly beginning to strain against the lower buttons, she doesn’t look like she’s about to get married. The Dutch braid is the most decorative thing about her, the only jewelry a pair of small earrings that used to belong to her mother. But she’s sitting taller, and the smile can’t quite leave her face.

Eileen takes a deep breath and lets Alex lead her back out of the bedroom and to the porch at the rear of the house. When they walk out, Eileen is greeted by beer bottles raised in the air, dozens of hands waving in celebration. Any other day, this kind of attention would make her uncomfortable. Today, it makes her laugh (and preen just a little).

It’s pleasantly cold and the air is crisp and new. Pearly clouds blanket the sky overhead in blues and greys, threatening snow despite it being so late in the season. Jody’s lawn is already lush and green – purple crocuses poke through at the edges.

Sam stands on the porch beside her, his blue plaid shirt bright against the greyness of the day. “Ready?” he signs, and reaches for her hand.

“Definitely,” she signs back. She wrinkles her nose up at him in a smile.

He squeezes her fingers, and together they step down off the deck and onto the grass, wading through the sea of friends and family to take their place at the far end of the lawn.

Garth is ordained, because _of course_ he is, a veritable Swiss army man of unflaunted talents. He had blubbered gleefully into the phone when Sam asked him to officiate, and now he steps up between them, a perfect picture of well-restrained joy.

Eileen doesn’t catch a word of Garth’s speech. She misses it entirely, because she can’t take her eyes off Sam’s face. Sam’s eyes don’t waver from hers.

After a minute or two, Garth touches her elbow and draws her attention. He touches his index finger to his chin, then moves his hand open-palmed against his opposite fist. “Your vows?”

Garth barely knows her, and yet he learned the sign for this. For _her_. Elation pulses outward from her chest.

She inhales slowly, steadily. “For most of my life, I’ve been alone, in so many ways” she begins, her hands shaking ever so slightly as she speaks along with the signs. “I never thought that I would start a family, or meet someone I would want to keep. I didn’t think I wanted any of those things.” 

She swallows, nervous and excited and feeling electricity course through her veins. On a subatomic level, she can feel her life about to change.

“But then I met you.”

Sam is smiling at her, and Eileen completely forgets that there’s anybody else present. Garth, Donna, Alex, Jody… Everybody standing in the yard with them simply fades into the grey, and for the moment it’s just her and Sam.

“With you, I found a home,” she finishes. “And a family. And I will _never_ give that up.”

Garth turns to Sam and signals that it’s his turn. Just as Sam opens his mouth to start, snowflakes begin to fall – small and already fading before they hit the ground. They collect in Sam and Eileen’s hair and on their shirtsleeves, on the shoulders of Garth’s cardigan, melting as soon as they land. The last hurrah of the dying winter.

Sam doesn’t seem to notice the snow, and when he speaks, his hands lift to sign along with his words. “There is nothing,” he says, “more important to me than our family.”

His signing is more fluid than Eileen has ever seen, with no stumbles or pauses, and she realizes that he has been practicing. He must have spent weeks rehearsing his vows in the bathroom mirror at the bunker, over and over and over until he smoothed out any possible risk of error. She wants to touch him, to hold his hand in hers, but she can’t interrupt him and she clasps her hands at her front to keep herself from doing it anyways.

“You understand me better than anybody else in the world,” Sam says, his hair twinkling slightly with melted snow. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and meeting you was by far the smartest decision I’ve ever made.”

Eileen’s not sure, but she thinks her heart might actually be singing.

“I won’t pretend to know how our lives are going to go from now on, or that it doesn’t scare the hell out of me, but I promise that I will be there for all of it. Every good thing and bad, I will be there. For the rest of my life.”

His palm presses to his chest, and then he draws a _G_ twice up the side of his jaw: “My Galway Girl.” This part he doesn’t say out loud. This is only to her.

The _I-do_ s are the easy part, over in a flash.

Garth pronounces them, and they kiss as the snow ceases to fall, barely a flurry against the encroaching spring.

The afternoon that follows is full of congratulations and pats on the back and burgers and laughter. And music. Jody drags her stereo out onto the porch and the hunters crowding her back yard take the day from a wedding to a party in short order. The music isn’t loud enough for Eileen to feel the bass or the rhythm – after all, Jody has neighbors. But she lets Sam keep her in time as they (and everyone else) dance in the grass.

And when Sam twirls her under his arm, Eileen is almost certain she catches a glimpse of a boy in a white jacket just ducking out of view around the corner of the house.

* * *

Eileen does not have an easy pregnancy. She’s an absolute mess throughout her third trimester, every day a struggle. Her feet hurt, her belly swells to the size of a planet, she can’t regulate her sleep schedule, and her cravings rotate so fast that neither she nor Sam can keep up with them. She has to pee _all_ the time, and God _damn_ it, why does the bunker have so many stairs?!

Sam is overly attentive to a point that severely irritates her. He carries things for her, rubs her feet when they ache, and helps her up out of bed in the mornings when she gets too big to do it on her own without straining something in her back. Most days, she just wants to scream at him that she can do it herself. She doesn’t need to be coddled; she’s _never_ needed that. But instead she grumbles and grabs his hand and lets him hoist her to her feet.

She snaps at him almost daily, unable to shake the sense that her independence is being drained away from her by this gigantic thing growing inside her. The baby kicks her constantly, and one afternoon after a particularly painful jab up into her ribs, she yells at Sam for giving their baby monstrously long legs.

Sam, amazingly, takes it in stride. Even when he’s obviously annoyed and she’s taking out her frustration on him, he doesn’t shout. Even when she kicks him out of bed and makes him sleep in one of the other bedrooms, he only gives her a kiss and lets her have the bed to herself. Even when she feels fat and ugly and hasn’t been able to get up to shower in two days, he tells her she’s beautiful and draws a hot bath for her. And in late August when she’s sweaty and overheating and ice cream is failing to cool her down, he takes her to the lake and helps her sit down on the edge of the public dock, dangling her feet in the water.

It’s in those moments that Eileen’s exasperation fades into the background, at least temporarily. In the mornings after she made Sam sleep somewhere else, she waddles to the kitchen and cooks breakfast for him before he wakes up. After he helps her sit down in the bathtub, she asks him to sit with her and they talk while she lets herself relax, belly doming upward through the bubbles on the surface. On the dock at the lake, she grabs his hand and pulls him to sit behind her, his legs on either side of her so that his feet hang in the water alongside hers and she can lean back on his chest. They sit like that for hours, soaking in the sunshine.

Summer rolls into the first inkling of autumn, and in mid-September the world is still a riot of greens with only the first tinges of red and orange touching the treetops. Eileen’s water breaks.

Sam drives her to the hospital in Salina. Her hand grips the door handle like a vice the entire ride – not because of any contractions, but because Sam is driving like a _maniac_.

It’s hours and hours and _hours_ of pacing the maternity ward, gritting her teeth through contractions as they slowly grow more frequent and more painful. Sam hovers, retrieving ice chips and holding her hand when her abdomen seizes so badly that she has to stop and bend over, bracing herself against the wall. Outside, the day stretches from morning into afternoon, and eventually darkens into nightfall.

The night sky twinkles with stars above and the lights of Salina below by the time Eileen’s contractions are close enough together for the nurses to usher her into the big hospital bed in her room. They offer her an ASL interpreter for what has to be the tenth time, and she emphatically refuses. Sam is here; why should she need a stranger to translate for her?

They lift her feet into the stirrups, and a wave of terror courses through her. “Sam—” she says.

Sam immediately maneuvers around the nurses and is at her side in an instant, gripping her hand. “I’m here,” he signs. “I’m not leaving.” His eyes flicker to the doctor, then back to her. “They’re saying you need to push.”

Eileen’s breath stops in her chest, and she shakes her head. Pain – _blinding_ pain – churns out from her center in horrible waves, and somehow she knows that pushing will make it worse. A rock presses against the walls of her throat, and she chokes back a sob. She can’t _do_ this.

Sam’s hand runs over her forehead, brushing her sweat-matted hair back from her face. “It’s time,” he signs. He smiles, though he looks just as terrified as she is. “Come on, Galway Girl. You have to push.”

Eileen isn’t sure if it’s his nickname for her that gives her the motivation she needs, or if it’s simply biological instinct taking over at that moment, but she clenches her jaw and screws her eyes tightly shut and gives her first real push.

The pain is _excruciating_. Her grip on Sam’s hand nearly breaks his fingers.

When she’s able to suck air into her lungs again, her vision is swimming, the edges fuzzy and white. She tries to focus solely on Sam’s face – the only familiar thing in the room – and her breath comes in ragged gasps. The next contraction rolls in far quicker than Eileen is prepared for, and her eyes squeeze shut again. She feels a keening scream force its way out of her body as she pushes again.

The contraction subsides and leaves her trembling. She breathes, in through her nose and out through her mouth, and sweat beads on her forehead.

She tugs on Sam’s wrist, then manages to sign with her free hand – “ _Need you_ ” – and gestures to the space behind her head. She doesn’t have the energy to speak out loud. With her eyes closing of their own accord, touching Sam with only one hand is not enough for her. He’s too far away, too inaccessible. She needs him closer.

“She wants me to sit behind her,” Sam says to the doctor, his face pleading.

Eileen doesn’t see the doctor’s response, but suddenly they’re moving her, adjusting the bed and her position on it to make room for Sam to slide in between her and the raised head of the cot. It takes some strategy, but at last Sam is solidly against her spine, his arms reaching around her to hold each of her hands. His head is over her shoulder, breath on her ear. Instantly, she feels safer.

Another contraction hits, pain tearing through her like lightning as she pushes down with every ounce of strength in her body. Tears course down her cheeks and her head falls back on Sam’s shoulder, against the side of his neck. Somewhere in the haze of agony-induced adrenaline she can feel Sam talking to her, but without seeing his face she doesn’t know what he’s saying. It doesn’t matter; the tremor of his voice is a tether she can cling to. 

Sam keeps his hold on her left hand but lets go of her right, rubbing his palm over her shoulder to soothe her. His lips press to her temple. Eileen leans into the touch; it’s the only thing that feels good right now.

Through the next contraction, and the next, and the next, Eileen arches back into Sam’s body, using him as a foundation, as an anchor. He’s resolute, and does not move.

Shortly before midnight, just as Eileen thinks that this will _truly_ kill her, she feels the baby’s head finally pass through. The pain does not subside, but it does alleviate slightly. The worst is over.

The doctor holds up an index finger. “One more!”

Eileen nods, her throat chafed and raw and her insides feeling like they’ve been wrenched apart. Sam’s left hand squeezes hers encouragingly, his right reaching around to press open-palmed to her chest just below her clavicle. She hooks her free hand over his forearm to secure herself against him, then draws a deep, furiously determined breath.

A final push, and she feels the baby pull out of her like something uprooted from the earth.

She sags back into Sam’s embrace, exhaustion seizing her almost immediately. Her head lolls on his shoulder. He’s hugging her, kissing her, his hands rubbing excitedly up and down her shoulders. Her chest still heaves with exertion, her fingertips crackle with oxygen. Sam’s voice rumbles at her back.

When she has enough energy to open her eyes, there’s only one nurse left at the bed, her hand soothing on Eileen’s knee. The rest have crowded away, a bustle of activity around the other end of the room. Eileen cranes her neck, bracing a hand on the inside of Sam’s arm to try and lift herself up, but she can’t see anything through the sea of scrubs.

She taps the inside of Sam’s wrist and twists in his hold as much as she can, so that she can see his face. Sam’s eyes are wide and glassy – awe, fear, pride, and love swirling into something that shines out through his skin.

“You did it! You did it,” he says through a moon of a smile.

She taps him again, then points toward where the nurses are gathered. “Crying?” she signs, too tired for complete sentences.

Sam nods. “Yes,” he answers. “It’s loud!”

Eileen releases a sigh, a wave of fatigue and relief washing through her.

A minute later, a nurse in pink scrubs pulls away from the group, arms cradled around a squirming bundle. Sam’s heart thuds against Eileen’s spine – or maybe it’s her own.

The nurse places the baby wrapped in a blanket in the crook of Eileen’s elbow, tiny arms kicking and mouth open in a scream. They’ve cleaned the baby’s skin somewhat, but there’s still little flecks of vernix and blood. The head is so small that it fits neatly into the palm of her hand.

Sam taps her shoulder, making her tear her eyes away. He touches his hand to his forehead. “It’s a boy.”

A boy. They have a son.

Sam helps to wrap the blanket a bit tighter around the baby, careful and afraid to break him. Slowly, as he settles into the new warmth, the baby stops crying and opens his eyes. They’re big and dark like Eileen’s, and she thinks she can see the shape of her nose in his. Sam’s fingers ghost over the crown of the baby’s head. The doctor and nurses are still in the room, all but forgotten.

“He looks just like you,” Sam says.

“Yeah,” Eileen agrees, her voice rasping in her throat. It’s the first thing she’s said aloud in hours. “He’s got your height, though.” Even bundled up in a blanket, she can tell.

The next few hours are a peaceful antidote to the day, as the nurses coach Eileen through the afterbirth and she dozes in and out, resting in Sam’s hold. Their baby is taken briefly to be properly bathed before he’s returned, and Eileen falls asleep on Sam’s shoulder during the baby’s first feed. Eventually, Sam untwines himself from around her and goes to get some food for them from the cafeteria. She’s asleep when he gets back. 

She wakes again close to four o’clock, the windows pitch black and the room only dimly lit. Sam occupies the space next to her in the bed, his arm wrapped around her middle. He’s dead to the world, warm and snoring. Beside her in a bassinet is the baby, also sleeping calmly, his mouth open and his body wriggling every so often as he adjusts to the new space.

Eileen reaches over and pulls the bassinet a bit closer, letting her hand rest against the baby’s side so that she can feel his breaths, short and quick. Sam’s arm is heavy on her flank.

They haven’t decided on a name. They’ve tossed around a couple of ideas over the past few months, but nothing stuck and ultimately they agreed to wait until the baby was born. It seemed wrong, really, to name a thing they couldn’t see.

Movement catches her eye, and she looks up just in time to see the spectral shape of a boy in a white jacket vanish from the reflection of the window. She smiles, not turning to see if it was real or imagined, and settles deeper into the safety of the bed.

She wonders if they should name the baby Jack, but quickly disposes of the idea. Having two children with the same name is probably bad luck, she thinks.

The baby squirms at her touch in the bassinet, as if agreeing.

There’s an armchair in the corner of the room, placed for visiting family members – new grandparents and the like.

Once the sun comes up they’ll probably be visited by Jody or Donna, giving their love to Sam and Eileen before saying an affectionate “Okay, that’s enough, now give me that baby!” and eagerly holding him in the armchair. If Alex or Patience come along, they’ll squeal in delight and fawn over his little fingers and toes and the tuft of dark hair on his head. If Kaia and Claire come, they’ll be more reserved, hesitant, but still willing to hold him at Eileen’s encouragement.

Suddenly, Eileen is struck with the image of Dean sitting in the chair, head tilted back as he sleeps, having been pacing the waiting room all day and night while Eileen was in labor. She can see the baby sleeping soundly on Dean’s chest, Dean’s hand keeping him safe and secure while she and Sam get some rest. He’d be gruff about it, pretending that he doesn’t know how to handle an infant, but in the same breath would chide, _Damn it, Sam, you’ve got to support his head._ He’d toss a spit-up cloth over his shoulder and hold out his hands and say, _Alright, come on, hand him over._

She blinks and the armchair is empty again.

Sam breathes behind her, even and untroubled, air on the nape of her neck and a steady heartbeat.

Eileen’s eyes fall back to the bassinet and she touches her son’s hand, his fist instinctively opening to clutch the tip of her finger. _Hello, Dean_ , she thinks.

She’ll have to discuss it with Sam once he wakes up, of course, but something tells her the name will stick.

She lays there as the sky outside begins to lighten, pale blue creeping up the windowpane. This tranquility will not last forever. Another day and they’ll leave the hospital as a family in a brand new shape which they haven’t yet learned. Eileen and Sam will struggle through the day-to-day mud of caring for a newborn. They’ll look for real jobs, and a real house. They’ll find a home far away from their old life.

Years will go by, and Dean will become a person in his own right. Eileen and Sam will be there for skinned knees and colds and his first broken heart. They will not always make the right moves. Eileen will not always be patient and Sam will not always be kind, but they’ll find their way back every time.

And Sam will sing through all of it. Through the nights when Dean is colicky and can’t settle. Through days when Dean throws tantrums and toys. Through Dean’s rebellious teenage phase, when he’s surly and fiercely resisting his imminent adulthood. Through the empty house after Dean’s shipped off to college and Eileen is lamenting that her baby’s grown and gone. Sam will sing, and pull her into the kitchen to dance with him.

As the decades stretch into old age, Sam will keep singing, until he gets so sick that he can’t any longer. He’ll pass before Eileen does, and then Dean will sing to her instead.

And eventually, she’ll see Sam again, because she knows he’ll be waiting for her.

But for now, Eileen is content to lay in Sam’s embrace, their child within reach, and watch the dawn bloom.

**Author's Note:**

> The song Sam sings is "Galway Girl" originally by Steve Earle. If you aren't familiar, I highly suggest you listen to it, especially the covers by The High Kings and/or Fiddler's Green.


End file.
